


Wherever I'm With You

by Mazarin221b



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Angst, First Times, Friends to Lovers, Future Fic, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Katsuki-Nikiforov baby, M/M, Otabek is a lot funnier when he's comfortable, Potya has a stupid nickname, Yuri is way more awkward when he's uncomfortable
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-23
Updated: 2018-10-01
Packaged: 2019-07-15 19:26:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16069730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mazarin221b/pseuds/Mazarin221b
Summary: At 21, Yuri finally has his own brand new apartment, Victor and Yuuri have taken their retirement to adopt a baby, Mila is considering changing rinks, and Otabek is coming to St. Petersburg after a season ending injury to take advantage of the world-class rehab facilities. Yuri, unsettled and off-balance, tries to find the calm in the storm with his best friend - but even time with Otabek carries a tension he hadn't expected.Otabek grins at Yuri over the edge of the quilt, and Yuri feels whatever nervous energy he’d whipped up fade. He’s right. Otabek is his closest friend and has been for over six years, so Yuri laughs, the familiarity of Otabek’s ever-demanding appetite making him feel at ease for the first time since he’d seen Otabek take a spill on a grainy YouTube video six months before.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For my Fandom Trumps Hate auction winner, DigitalMeowMix! They donated to The Trevor Project, Trans Life Line, and the ACLU, in order to win my services - thank you so, so much for supporting these causes! I'd love it if you, as a reader, would consider a donation, too! <3  
> Special thanks to Holly for doing some quick betawork for this!

Victor Nikiforov’s face is just as annoying upside down as it is right side up.

Especially when Yuri is viewing it from sprawled on the ice, still perfect hair backlit by the overhead fluorescent lights, face in shadow and stretched with an amused smile, eyes sparkling with mirth.

Most especially when he’s on his back on the ice because he’d failed a quadruple toe loop, a jump Victor himself hadn’t failed in the last 7 years he competed. And probably in the five years since he retired, just because that’s the kind of asshole he is.

“You’re not going to make him show up any sooner by looking at the door every time someone comes in, you know,” Victor says, and holds out his hand. Yuri debates ignoring him to get up on his own, but damn, that last one really did hurt. He takes Victor’s hand and hauls himself up, but not without toe-checking Victor’s heel and making him skid and curse.

“Thanks, old man,” Yuri calls, as he darts for the boards. He can hear Victor a second behind him, still as quick on his feet at 33 as he was at Yuri’s age. Yuri had a jump on him but they both crash into the wall at almost the same time. Victor grabs a handful of Yuri’s shirt and tries to throw him out to starfish on the ice.

“Enough! You two are going to ruin this program with your idiocy, I swear you are.” Yakov calls, his voice booming across the rink. Victor and Yuri stop stock still and look at each other guiltily. Yuri may not be a kid anymore and neither is Victor, but that voice still carries the weight of authority carved into their bones, an order neither chooses to disobey.

“Look what you did, Yura, you’ll give him a heart attack,” Victor mock-scolds and pops through the opening in the boards to grab his water bottle. “He’ll never live to see his godson.”

Yuri rolls his eyes. “You think you can get away with anything because of the kid.”

“I do not, and we don’t even have him yet. A few more weeks, that’s all!” Victor beams. “Want to see the picture we got yesterday?” 

No, Yuri really doesn’t, but there’s no real way to get out of it, so he looks at the camera screen shoved in his face. It shows a small, sleeping, dark-haired bundle, soother in his mouth and little fists clenched up near his cheeks.  Well, it’s an improvement over the last one, anyway. He looks less…red and screamy.

“They just need to clear his passport and make sure his paperwork is done then we can go get him! It’s going to be such a long flight though, almost 8 hours! Novosibirsk is just too far away.”

Yuri sighs, his patience for the baby talk that’s consumed Victor and Yuuri’s lives the last three months running so thin he can barely feign interest any more. He’s happy for them, really, it’s just so  _ much _ .  _ All the time.  _ At least it’s still technically the off season and they can go learn to be parents in peace away from the rest of them for a few months.

Yuri nods and mumbles something like “Nice,” at the pictures and tries to make his escape before Victor starts talking about weights and milestones and teething. As he steps back onto the ice the doors open, the pressure of the arena opening to outside air making their ears pop just enough that they both turn to look out of instinct. A lean, dark haired woman with scarf still pulled up around her ears enters first, and then, behind her and still hobbling along in a walking boot is Otabek Altin.

_ Finally. _

…………………………………………………………………………………..

“So yeah, I finally got this place, sorry it’s on the top floor, I didn’t think about you staying here when you blew out your Achillies,” Yuri says. He knows he’s babbling nonsense, nerves frayed to the edges as he pulls his keys out of his pocket and unlocks the door. “I mean, there is an elevator and all, but still, the steps and stuff up, I mean, they’re pretty sucky. Are you okay? Can I carry that bag?” The door creaks open and Yuri practically falls through carrying Otabek’s suitcase, his gear bag, and his own gear bag as Otabek silently thumps in after him with his carry on.

“Yuri,” Otabek sighs. “Please. I’m sure your new place is fine. I appreciate you letting me stay here. But I’m begging you. Stop talking.”

Yuri clamps his jaw shut, face heating.  Otabek reaches out and slaps him on the back of the head. “Ow!” Yuri yelps. “What was that for?”

“You’re being ridiculous. We’ve been friends too long for this awkward shit.” Otabek looks around. “Not bad. You still have that stupid sofa.  Where’s Pots?”

Yuri chuckles, rueful. He’s right, they’ve been friends so long, but Yuri hasn’t seen him, really seen him in person, in over six months. Not since he tore up his Achillies tendon in practice in a fall that took him out of the entire Grand Prix series and could, if he’s not careful, impact the next. 

Yuri tries not to think about it.

“Would you stop fucking calling her that?” Yuri sighs, tired already of the same argument they have every single time Otabek comes to stay. “She’s probably hiding under my bed.“

“She’ll come out when she hears me. Pots!”

Yuri shakes his head. “She’s fuckin’ old, Beka, stop yelling.”

“She’s 12, that’s not old. Now, where am I sleeping?”

“Down here, it’s across from mine,” Yuri says and leads Otabek past the large open kitchen. Otabek’s air cast is loud against the wood floors. 

“It’s very white,” Otabek remarks. “Very. Ah. Sparse.”

Yuri turns around and walks backwards in front of him. “Hey, fuck you, I just got here last week, it’s not like I’ve had time to decorate, Jesus. Here.” Yuri leads down the hall and to the bedroom across from his and flips on the light. He’s at least got a bed and a dresser in there for visitors, but he’s not yet put a whole lot of thought into much of anything else. Perhaps he should have thought about that first. Make it homey for the months Otabek will be in therapy here. 

Otabek elbows past him and drops his carry on on the bed. “Hey, you gave me the quilt!” Otabek flops back on the patchwork quilt Yuri’s grandmother had made over forty years ago, soft and worn with age. The colors were becoming more and more faded with every washing, and Yuri could swear it still smelled like pipe smoke, but Otabek loved that stupid thing and would retrieve it from whatever place Yuri had secreted it to wrap up in when he visited in the old dorms. “It smells like home,” he’d say, and Yuri would shake his head, completely unconvinced. Yuri had decided if anyone had to sleep under it in this place, it was going to be Otabek.

“Yeah, I figured may as well just let you have it,” Yuri says. “I mean, if the old grease stain doesn’t bother you then I’m not going to argue. Besides, you’d just find it anyway.”

Otabek reaches out for the corners of the quilt and rolls himself up in it like a burrito, his casted foot sticking out of the bottom. “You know me so well, Yura,” he says. “It’s fucking cold in here. Now, let’s find some food. I’m starving, and I’m not eating whatever Katsuki cooks up this time. You and I, we’re getting shashlik and beer. Fuck meal plans. I’ve not eaten real food in over thirty six hours.” Otabek grins at Yuri over the edge of the quilt, and Yuri feels whatever nervous energy he’d whipped up fade. He’s right. Otabek is his closest friend and has been for over six years, so Yuri laughs, the familiarity of Otabek’s ever-demanding appetite making him feel at ease for the first time since he’d seen Otabek take a spill on a grainy YouTube video six months before.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Then let me tell you what I see,” Otabek says, and Yuri is surprised at how insistent he sounds. “Not a fairy, no. Nothing so delicate, or sweet. Nothing frail. What I see is a man. A man, Yuri, strong and masculine and fearless. Don’t let them give you labels you don’t want. That’s not my friend. That’s not who you’ve ever been.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to Holly for such a quick beta on this! Youre the absolute best!

Yuri wakes up the next morning in sunshine so bright it feels like a warm summer day, not the middle of March. He stretches luxuriously, first one leg and then the other, the kinks that knot his back popping one by one as he twists. The blankets settle as he stills, unused to the sight above his bed of the smooth, pale, blue and white tiered ceiling, and the modern stainless steel and glass basket-shaped lighting fixture sprinkled with tiny rounded prisms. It’s obnoxious and glittery and is much, much too bright, but Yuri adores it, and his room, a step up from anything he’d ever had in his life before.

He turns over and looks around for Potya; her morning chirrup is nowhere to be heard, her body keyed into Yuri’s normal schedule almost better than his is. The door is cracked and as Yuri settles and listens, clinks and clatters can be heard from outside the door, and the faint whiff of warm butter and bacon wafts through.

That’s right. Otabek.

Yuri leaps out of bed, checks to make sure he remembered to put on pants last night, and bolts down the hall. Sure enough Otabek is standing in the kitchen in black track pants and ratty blue muscle shirt, brow furrowed in concentration as he pokes at a pan, his dark hair sticking up in every direction. 

Yuri hops up to the breakfast bar and peers over at the omelet setting up in the pan.  _ Fuck yes, benefit one of Otabek living here _ . “How the fuck did you get food? All I had here was protein shakes and some cheese.”

Otabek grins and slides the omelet out onto a plate, neatly slices it in half, and places one half on a second plate. “Went out this morning early. Jet lag. By the way, your pans are pretty great.”

Yuri shrugs. “I have no clue what I got, I had Lilia pick them out.  Give her something to do other than weep about me moving out on my own.”

“She still upset about it?”

Yuri spoons some fruit onto his plate. “Nah, she wasn’t really too bad, some kind of empty nest shit, I don’t know.” Yuri takes a bite of his omelet and he can’t help it, he moans around his fork. “I missed your cooking, Beka, holy shit this is so good.” Yuri shoves another bite in his mouth, cheese and bacon and egg and herbs, and he could eat his weight in it. “But I can’t do this every day. I’m supposed to be the Russian Fairy, not hippopotamus.”

Otabek’s fork clatters down on his plate. “Yuri, are you serious right now?”

Yuri stops, a forkful of blueberries halfway to his mouth. “Uh, what? It’s  true. It’s my brand, or whatever.” He shoves the blueberries in and chews for a minute. “Don’t start getting all worried or something. I’ve been doing this for years.”

Yuri startles as Otabek slides out from behind the breakfast bar, grabs Yuri by the upper arm and drags him toward the hall. Yuri swallows his bite of blueberries and briefly thinks of pulling back; Beka knows he’s watched his food for years, this isn’t news. It’s not like he doesn’t eat, he’s just careful. This sudden concern, though, that’s definitely new, and Yuri’s curiosity keeps him pliant under Otabek’s directing hand. 

The hall rug slips under his feet as Yuri tries to keep his balance, hair sliding out of its tie, long strands wrapped around his face and sticking to his sweaty neck. Otabek pulls him into the hall bath and up in front of the mirror, standing behind his shoulder and peering at him with burning eyes. 

“Look at yourself, Yuri. I mean it. Look at what I see.”

Yuri does. Nothing he’s not proud of – he grew up long and lean, fortunately; muscular and lithe, his body a honed, sharp tool of his trade. Blonde hair down to the middle of his back, bright green eyes, pale eyebrows. Nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing to worry about. Yuri shakes his head, Otabek’s hand a hot pressure where he grips Yuri’s bicep.

“Then let me tell you what I see,” Otabek says, and Yuri is surprised at how insistent he sounds. “Not a fairy, no. Nothing so delicate, or sweet. Nothing frail. What I see is a man. A man, Yuri, strong and masculine and fearless. Don’t let them give you labels you don’t want. That’s not my friend. That’s not who you’ve ever been.”

Yuri looks in the mirror again, notes the curve of his shoulder and the shadow of Otabek’s hand on his arm, his bright eyes looking at Yuri with such conviction. He knows there are parts he’s played, characters he fulfilled: for the RSF, the ISU, his fans, his family. But Otabek always has seen him for who he really is. Seen past the bullshit and the drama, to who Yuri is at his core.

Otabek pats him on the shoulder and leaves Yuri alone. Yuri leans forward, hands on the counter, and looks more closely at the sprinkle of tiny freckles on his nose, the delicate shadow of his pale stubble. 

Maybe he’s right.

Maybe it’s time to grow up.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Yuri doesn’t say another word the rest of the morning and neither does Otabek; they dress in their layers, heavy sweats over skin-tight pants and slick, sweat-wicking shirts, and then as Yuri is packing his water bottle into his bag, Otabek limps into the living room and drops his boot on the floor and Yuri sees it.

The livid, raised scar of Otabek’s surgery to reattach his Achilles tendon, running from his heel to under the hem of his joggers. Even the post-surgery picture of the incision hadn’t prepared Yuri for the reality of Otabek’s injury right before his eyes. 

“It’s not that bad, Yura,” Otabek says, and Yuri realizes he’s staring, and very possibly hasn’t breathed in the last thirty seconds.

“It’s hideous,” he finally says. “Does it still hurt?”

Otabek smirks. “Like hell, most of the time. It’s too tight, I can’t flex my foot in the walking boot, and it’s time to start working that out. Sucks. I can barely feel anything anymore, I’ve had this boot on so long. Remember, I couldn’t even take it off when I slept the first three months.”

Yuri does remember, remembers Otabek bitching about not being able to sleep. Remembers, too, the hideously ugly line of stitches almost six inches long that bled and itched and it makes Yuri cringe thinking about it. Otabek thumps the boot upright and shoves his foot into it, tightens down the inner foam padding and the straps, and stands. He sighs, and then reaches for his bag. 

“Let’s go, Yura. We’ve got work to do.” Otabek slaps him on the shoulder as he passes on his way to the front door, and Yuri nods. If Otabek isn’t fussed than neither is he, and he’ll be damned if Otabek Altin is going to ever look more cool about anything than he does. Yuri flips off the light and locks the door, and follows Otabek to the elevator. 

……………………………………………………………………………………………………

“So, if you turn left here, that leads back to the workout rooms, across from the locker rooms here. You can usually get whatever you need, tape or balm or whatever, in the trainer’s room next to that. But don’t steal Madeline’s straps, she’ll kill you.” 

“Noted. I’m to be in the trainer’s room in ten minutes, I’m sure I’ll learn,” Otabek says dryly.

Yuri pushes open the heavy door to the locker room, and the chatter from within washes over him like a warm wave. The locker room at the arena has been almost his second home for a decade, and he can tell who’s here just from the bounce and carry of their voices from various corners of the space. Including—oh hell, Victor and Yuuri. 

“If we finish Romana’s choreography before we leave, she can be ready to train with Timur while we’re on leave,” Yuuri says, and Yuri turns the corner to see him lacing his skates. Good. Katsuki hasn’t been on the ice in a few days, and Yuri still wants a few notes on a new step sequence he thought up the other week and hasn’t wanted to show anyone else quite yet save him. He dumps his bag on the bench and turns to Otabek.

“You can have the locker here, next to mine,” Yuri starts, but before Otabek can even reach for the latch Victor spots him. 

“Otabek!” He says, grin wide. “So good to see you here!” 

Yuuri looks up from his skates. “Oh! Otabek! Nice to see you!” 

Otabek smiles, and Yuri can see the resignation in the lop-sided nature of his grin. “Victor, Yuuri. Nice to see you again. I apologize for not greeting you yesterday.”

“Absolutely no need to apologize! How are you? How are you healing? Are you on the ice yet?” Victor fires off questions faster than Yuri can process them, and at Otabek’s raised eyebrow Yuri turns to Katsuki and pleads silently. 

“What Victor is trying to say,” Yuuri says, and Yuri breathes a sigh of relief. “Is welcome, and we hope you’re doing well.”

Victor nods. “Yes, that. And if you need anything, please let us know. We’re here to help! Well, at least for the next few weeks, that is.”

And before Yuri can stop him, Otabek says “Oh? Are you going on vacation?” and out come the baby pictures and stories and Yuri just strips off his sweats, throws everything in his locker, takes his skates in hand and heads out in his sock feet to the rink. Let Otabek deal with that mess on his own. …………………………………………………………………………………………………………

“You’re a  _ dick _ ,” Otabek says as he closes the front door to the apartment. Yuri just cackles from where he’s slicing eggplant and carrots and zucchini. 

“You fuckin’ know better, I don’t know why you act like you’ve never met them before.” 

“Because maybe I hope a tiny speck of self-awareness will seep into their brains from the one time I see them to the next?” 

Yuri snorts. Otabek limps heavily across the entry and into the living room, and Yuri watches him over the breakfast bar as he unstraps his walking boot and lifts his foot onto the sofa with a sigh. His brow is furrowed, his lashes a dark sweep along his closed eyes, and Yuri’s heart clenches a little. He looks so thin, honestly, and so very, very tired.

“You still want to eat?” Yuri asks. “Chicken, sorry. But—“ Yuri waves his hand vaguely. “You know. All that meal plan shit.”

Otabek cracks his eyes open and glances over at Yuri. “Yeah, okay. Give me a minute. Madeline almost killed me.”

Yuri shrugs and tosses the chicken into the wok Yuuri gave him as a housewarming gift. It was even pre-seasoned, probably by Hiroko’s expert hand, and Yuri spares a moment of sympathy for Lilia’s saucepans. The chicken hits the oil with a crackle, and Yuri tosses it around and contemplates. 

“You know, you could have probably found a sports medicine specialist closer to home. I hate that you had to uproot your whole life to come here for however long, for therapy. Madeline is the best, we know that, but still.”

Otabek pauses in stretching his calf muscle, his compact, muscular frame almost bent in half, a flexibility few would give him credit for. “I’m in Kazakhstan, Yuri, because my mother is there. It’s not home any more than … anywhere else is. I didn’t live with her for years.”

Yuri nods. “Yeah, I get it, I mean, I’ve not lived in Moscow since I was ten or so, but, yeah. Grandpa’s home is my home, I guess.” 

Otabek stretches and looks over to him with a smile. “Honestly, Yuri, I think your old dorm was the most consistent place I’ve ever had in my life. And now even that’s gone. “

Yuri laughs and throws some five-spice powder over the chicken and vegetables. “If you miss it that bad, I can let Potya piss on the rug and leave the trash in your room for a while. Give it that good, lived-in, communist bunker smell.” 

“Nah. And besides, I’ve got the quilt. That’s close enough for me.”

“It’s your bout of asthma from the dust on that thing, not mine.”

Otabek gets up and walks over to lean against the breakfast bar. He lifts a hand to pick up Yuri’s long braid from over his shoulder and Yuri stills, the chicken and vegetables still sizzling in the pan and Yuri’s heart strangely skips in his chest.  He watches as Otabek wraps the braid around his fingers and tugs playfully, but doesn’t let go. “And there’s you. Six years of you. Other than my mother and Adrian, I can’t think of anyone else in my life longer.” 

Yuri catches Otabek’s eyes, dark and sincere, and the heaviness in that one straightforward statement settles into Yuri’s stomach like a stone. Before either of them can look away, the moment is broken by the shrill beep of the timer on the rice cooker. Yuri pulls his braid from Otabek’s grasp and swallows. 

He can’t seem to make himself look again at Otabek’s face, so he looks past him to the blank space above the fireplace in his living room. The stark white walls loom over Otabek’s shoulder, a space looking for something to fill it, something to warm it and make it welcoming. 

“We have a half day on Friday,” Yuri starts as he dishes out the food, hands shaking as he struggles to sprinkle some crispy rice noodles over the plates.  “You want to go with me to find a painting or something to put over there?” Yuri gestures at the open space.

Otabek blinks and turns to look. “Ah, okay. Yes. That would be nice, Yura.”

Yuri nods and carries their plates to the small table set against the windows between the living room and the kitchen. Otabek follows, silent, and they eat together without speaking a word. Yuri’s eyes drift to a wide open space in his new home, a space he’s giving over to Otabek to fill, and wonders why his heart feels too large for his chest.

……………………………………………………………………………………………

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> The title of this fic is from [Home Is Wherever I'm With You" from Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZDhD4x-PZJE)


End file.
